Defiant (4 page)

She finally shook her head, apparently agreeing with him that he couldn't swat a fly if he'd been so inclined. At least she had the mind not to ask him how he was.

He became aware of a growing thirst. “Water?”

She nodded and reached down, pouring water from a pitcher into a tin cup. She again regarded him with that searching gaze of hers. It held a question but she evidently answered it herself because she didn't ask him anything. She merely lifted his head with one arm while bringing the cup to his lips with the other.

She was very patient, as he sipped slowly. When he finished the cup, she gently lowered his head. Clearly she was experienced at this, and he wondered about the missing husband.
I've lost a husband and a
…
good friend
.

So she knew loss, too. But at least she still had a child. His was buried on the side of a mountain. Bitterness and grief swept over him.

He closed his eyes, shutting her out. He hadn't thanked her. Not for saving his life. Not for the water. And he wouldn't. Why hadn't she just left him alone?

There was a silence, then that light swishing sound. The scent of flowers retreated, though a whiff remained in the air. He heard a door close.

Wade opened his eyes. He was alone in a dark room. No light shone through gingham curtains so it must be night. A low rumble sounded outside. She'd, mentioned a storm.
She
. He didn't even know her name, nor apparently did she know his. She hadn't asked, and that was surprising.

He didn't understand why a woman alone had taken him in. For all she knew, he could be a murderer.

He was.

He hadn't been worth much before his wife and son were killed. He'd never been able to protect those he cared about. And now? Without his right arm, he was worth less than nothing.

He could even be a danger to this woman and her son. He'd just killed three white men. There was bound to be a posse.

Rain pounded against the roof. Thunder roared.

Then he felt sleep coming on, and he wondered if the woman had put something into the water, a touch of laudanum perhaps.

Thunder roared again and the room was suddenly ablaze with a flash of lightning. Then it was gone, leaving only blackness in its wake.

The door opened, then he felt a soft hand on his cheek. He wanted to shake it away.

It felt too good.

But it wasn't Chivita's touch.

He held himself rigid, and endured.

He heard a soft sigh, and then she was gone again, and he slowly commanded himself to relax. The drowsiness returned, taking him back to an empty, black place that had no joy, but no pain, either.

Mary Jo fingered the cotton shirt and denim trousers on her lap. They had been her husband's. Unwilling to give up everything he owned, she'd kept his clothes and was now grateful for bringing them here. The wounded man was disturbing enough. Having him naked in her bed was even more disturbing.

His pain-etched face and secretive gray-green eyes that were full of shadows haunted her. He hadn't wanted death just because he feared physical agony. Something deeper ran inside him, something so hurtful that it had taken away his desire to stay alive. Only an innate tenacity had kept him from dying, a core of steel that survived his best efforts to destroy it.

Laudanum had kept him sedated for two days during which he had mumbled on and off. She had caught only occasional words, but they had been enough to know he'd been to hell and back, and probably taken others with him. That should have frightened her, but it didn't.

Ruthless men didn't have consciences. But this stranger obviously did. Words of violence had mixed with ones of regret, phrases of retribution with those of grief.

And a name. Drew. Drew was mentioned over and over again in a tone harsh with sorrow and longing.

The sound had hit the chord of her own grief, brought back the sorrow of losing her husband and Ty. She'd felt linked to the stranger in ways she couldn't afford, didn't want.

Despite all the warning voices deep inside her telling her she shouldn't care, she worried about her stranger every minute. What would he do with a crippled arm? Where had he come from? Was there any family?

Mary Jo looked at the fire roaring in the fireplace, seeking answers. The stranger was trouble. The bullet holes in him were evidence of that. Someone had put them there, and for a reason. She couldn't allow her heart or mind to make room for such a man. But he was wounded and she was doing for him what she would do for any hurt thing.

Her attention returned to the clothes on her lap. They should fit, though the trousers would be a bit snug.

She had tried washing out his deerskin shirt and trousers, but they had been beyond saving. Unwilling to burn what didn't belong to her, she had dried them next to the fire and folded them neatly. They were pink with blood, ripped beyond repair, and part of her had regretted that as she had noticed the fine workmanship. Indian workmanship.

She had no sympathy for Indians. The Comanche had raided throughout Texas, burning and raping and killing. They had robbed her of her sister, her best friend, and her father. They were savages she'd been raised to hate and fear. Even the thought of them brought a cold terror to her heart. And the Utes, people around here said, were little better. Everyone had a horror story.

Why was he wearing those clothes?

She put the shirt aside and went into Jeff's room where she was staying while the stranger occupied her bed. Her son was sleeping on the floor, and she watched him from the door. He had been so anxious about the stranger, so excited about finding and rescuing him. She was glad he hadn't been awake to hear the man earlier; Jeff would be devastated to know his efforts were unappreciated.

She moved her gaze to Jake, who lay next to Jeff. She had scooted the dog away from the patient, and Jake had left the man's side reluctantly. It was strange the way the dog had attached himself to the man. His new allegiance disturbed her—but perhaps it was just his sense of protectiveness for something wounded.

Like hers.

Thunder rumbled again and she heard the crack of lightning. Much too close.

She decided to check her patient. She tiptoed quietly over to the bed, leaned over and felt his face. Cool now. No infection. She blessed the miracle.

The breathing, though, was not natural, and then she realized he was awake, only pretending sleep. She sensed the rigidity of his body, the tension in it. She wanted to say something, but she didn't know what. He obviously wanted to be alone.

Feeling uncertain and unexpectedly hurt, she turned around and left.

A noise shook Mary Jo from sleep. It was a low keening moan, a sound of such profound sorrow that it vibrated through her body and lingered there.

She sat up, tried to adjust her eyes to the darkness. She saw a movement where Jeff had been sleeping and realized the noise had disturbed him, too.

She reached for her robe, pulling it over her thin nightdress, and walked the several steps to Jeff. She knelt down beside him. “It's all right, Jeff. It's just the storm.”

He shook his head. “I don't think so. It's the stranger.”

So much for trying to fool a twelve-year-old, Mary Jo thought.

“Perhaps,” she said. “You stay here while I check on him.”

“I want to go,” he protested.

“I'll call you if I need you,” she said, then added, “Remember how you are when you don't feel well? You don't want anyone to see you that way.”

He had started to protest, but the words died on his lips. She had chosen the one tactic that worked. He nodded reluctantly.

Mary Jo lit a kerosene lamp and walked out the door and down the hall. She'd left his door open so she could hear if he worsened during the night, and now she heard the moan again, a moan that turned into a shout.

“Not Drew, God, not Drew. Not again. Chiyita! What have they done? Christ, what have they done?”

Mary Jo's heart stopped at the anguish in the voice, the utter hopelessness. He had kicked the covers loose and his naked body was jerking, fighting an invisible demon. He turned on his wounded arm, and pain shot through her own body in empathy.

She rushed over to him, sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to anchor his shoulders with her hand, trying to keep him still.

“It's all right,” she whispered, knowing it wasn't all right at all. Whatever was deviling him was not all right. She feared it would never be all right.

When he almost toppled her to the floor, she slapped him across the face, trying to wake him. The blow quieted him. His body stilled, and his eyes fluttered open. A long breath escaped his throat, as if he had been holding it there, and sweat trembled on his face.

His gaze found hers, then shifted to his uncovered body. “Damn,” he whispered, then tried ineffectively to pull the blanket over himself. Whatever nightmare had haunted him had drained the little strength he had.

Mary Jo reached over and covered him.

“Damn,” he said again, clenching his teeth. Whether it was against pain or his obvious humiliation, she didn't know.

She looked away, picking up a towel and wetting it in the bowl of water she'd left on the table. She then washed the sweat from his face. His cheeks were rough with bristles.

“My clothes?” he asked.

“Beyond redemption, I think,” Mary Jo said, trying to force humor into her voice.

“I can't … stay here.”

“You can't leave, either,” she said. “Not for a few days, anyway, probably longer. You wouldn't get to the door.”

“I'll bring you trouble.”

Mary Jo smiled wryly. “I've had trouble so long, the idea of a little more doesn't bother me.”

“What about your boy?”

“I'll take care of Jeff,” she said sharply.

“I have to have some clothes.”

“You can have some of my husband's,” Mary Jo said, “but later. The shirt won't go over that arm yet, nor the trousers over the bandage on your leg.”

“I can't …”

Mary Jo suddenly smiled at the absurdity of the situation. It was the first time she'd known a man to complain of nudity. “I don't feel a whole lot better about it than you do, but right now there's no alternative.”

“You haven't asked any questions.”

“No,” she agreed. “I didn't think you were well enough to answer any. But I have questions. And I
will
ask them.”

His lips twisted slightly at the left corner. “I bet you will.”

“I
will ask
one now, though,” she said. “I can't just call you mister.”

“Foster,” he said with reluctance. “Wade Foster.”

“Well, Mr. Foster, I'm Mary Jo Williams. My son is Jeff. I think everything else can wait.”

“What time is it?”

“Near dawn, I expect,” she said.

“I'm … sorry.”

“Don't be. I've had nightmares of my own.”

She wrenched her gaze away. His humiliation seemed to have disappeared, which had been her main intent. Men, she'd found, could live with a lot of things but rarely that.

“If you're all right,” she said, “I'll leave you to sleep. That's the best medicine for you now.”

“Is it?” he said softly, and she knew this nightmare had not been the first one.

“Who's Drew?” she asked suddenly. She hadn't meant to; the question just came.

His eyes turned so bleak that she wished she could take the question back.

“You weren't going to ask anymore questions yet,” he said harshly.

“No,” she said. “I just thought … it might help to talk it out.”

“Drew is my son,” he said, “and nothing will help.” He turned on his good side, shielding himself from her, from her sudden intrusion.

Mary Jo stood there for a moment, stunned by the revelation, and then she noticed his shoulders were heaving. Suddenly she knew that Drew was dead.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry.”

He didn't answer. She blew out the light and retreated for the second time that night. She knew she wouldn't sleep. Nor, she suspected, would he.

3

Wade tried to stand, managed that feat, but no more. He collapsed back down on the bed.

The first light of dawn was leaking through the gingham curtains, and he didn't think the woman or her son would be awake yet, not after last night.

Christ, he hated the lack of clothes, the lack of dignity. He felt like a prisoner in this room, in this bed, and yet he knew the woman had been right. He wouldn't get far in his current condition.

Why had she gone to so much trouble on his behalf?

He cringed inwardly as he recalled his display of grief last night.

He hadn't mourned when he'd found his wife and son dead ten months earlier. Anger and hate had shoved out everything else and he'd focused only on avenging their deaths. He hadn't even mourned when he'd killed the last of the murderers he had tracked for months.

He hadn't allowed himself to feel. He hadn't, he realized now, even admitted to himself that his son and wife were really gone.

It wasn't until the woman had asked about Drew that he accepted the fact that Drew was dead, that his son had been brutally murdered. Those fine, dark eyes would remain closed forever; his lips would never grin again.

Wade was alive, and Drew was dead. History had repeated itself once again, and he didn't understand it. Why did he continue to survive when everyone around him died?

He resented the woman, by God. He resented her for saving what was no longer worth saving, for being kind, for reminding him of all he'd lost.

There was nothing left: not family, or peace, or self-respect, or love. He'd burned his own cabin, the one he'd built for Chivita in the valley she loved, alongside the river where he'd taught Drew to fish, the river that had lured greedy miners in search of gold, despite the Utes' claim to it.